Yesterday, I was wondering what it would be like to return to a state of innocence like before I was aware of the wicked ways of the world.

Remember Supertramp’s Logical Song, kind of like that before they sent him away!

I was ruminating about this over a turkey sandwich in Starbucks and this poem poured out:

Before you became aware of your sexuality,
Before you became aware of sex,
Before you became aware of good and evil,
Before you became aware of violence,
Before you became aware of deceit,
Before you became aware of betrayal,
Before you became aware of hate,
Before you became aware of work,
Before you became aware of money,
Before you became aware of death,
Before you became aware of sin,
Before you became aware of ‘I’
Before you became aware of limits,
Before you became aware of heartbreak,

There was bliss.

I’ve been threatening to publish another poetry chapbook for at least a year now. I have a completed manuscript, just haven’t gotten around to editing it. I think what has been holding me back, is that I want to do something different with it in terms of format and form. I played around with releasing it as a graphic novel:

And i’ve played around with rewriting it as a series as a flash fiction collection. Or even a series of experimental videos. Not sure yet. But, anyway, here a few of the poems I’m tinkering with.

Something Different

I came to a road that
Looked familiar to me
I asked a bird where
the road led. She said
‘to a place you’ve already
been.’ But I yearn for something
different.’ That’s what all the boys say,
She said and flew away.


She rubbed her thumb
across my palm, rewrote
my past and my future

She put her bookmark
in my heart, then walked away

That was All Saints Day

It’s November now, a pale
cold night. I walk the streets
no passion in my heart

I can’t admit these thoughts
to her, she has her own
demons to chase. I turn my
coat against the cold and walk
into the night



She Could Only

My sorrowed eyes looked
beyond her vintage lips.

I could have wandered on,
lived my life half wake, a
broken wing, crushed by
your ignorance.

I never really understood
why she said she could only
hate what she should love.

Old Maid

Rimbaud looked over
my left shoulder as I
read A Season in Hell.

He pointed to a line in his book.
I read it and wept. I knew the meaning.

“What an old maid I am getting to be,
lacking the courage to be in love with death.”

The only remedy I could
think of was to spit back
the words of Dylan Thomas

and promise to myself to
rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(for a few seconds anyway)

I don’t have that kind of stamina.


This past weekend, we packed up the Outlander and headed northeast to King’s Lynn for a little camping excursion. The first one of the season. I know it’s late, but heck with the earlier weather not being the best and then vacation time in Fuerteventura, well the days and weeks fly by and before you know it’s mid-July before you’re pitching tent for the first time in 2018. Looks like we caught the last of the dry, hot weather too, so good deal all around.

King’s Lynn is a seaport and market town in Norfolk, England. At 102 miles, it’s the nearest beach to us (actually the beach we went to was about 30 miles north of our campsite in Hunstanton. It was fabulous grabbing so much fresh air over the weekend, and two nights of open fire – bonus!


On the beach, I crafted these two poems:


instead of profit,
music is the bottom line

dance floor constructed


experience to create
a language of desire

the break from real
sold to us through

the environment
where physical connection
seemingly encouraged
emotional engagement




the composition of style

sexual energy
makes less than
what it seems

body becomes object
the desire within,
a chance to touch
the forbidden

day breaks
the magic ends

keeps coming back
keeps pouring in

gay or straight flyers
advertising the event
energy, sex, or otherwise

the composition of
the style of

the streets of New York City

I got in line came
face to face with attractive
young women bundled against
the cold in stylish pleasant
conversation, sensually dressed
heroin-chic, collecting £15 for
privileged entry.

I entered the chapel
headed for the bar
too early for the truth

at the bar, I found
the congregation
of the beautiful

truth from beauty


can be yourself
don’t bottle up the body,

keep it open.

when all self-identifications remain
get rid of


no self-definition, i am
energy and bring nothing
reality here, can i

demand nothing when you
want nothing, seek nothing
expect nothing


a man engrossed
prescribed by his scriptures
will get wrapped up in them

so many saints
words may be true
independent of ripening time

stay open and quiet
you seek no place
know that

don’t burden yourself
names seeking ends
desire for truth, this is
your profit

seeking at

so i lay there
playing with splinters
in the late red afternoon

the angels of paradise
hidden in the mystery
of my days leaning
on warm wings sang to me

sticks lie broken
dead leaves gather dust
i am homesick here
in the ashes

all i wanted was
glory found only
strange sadness instead

on a pristine
october afternoon
i applied for a job
begging at the ports

all for the sake
of feeling my way
against the ghost
of your truth

my lies limed
and loaded flowed
easy riding the night’s
last flicker of hope

i was young
i tried to capture
you with rhymes
and exotic suggestions

touching myself
pretending to be
a poet of all things

you were a tourist
picking through
the constellations
looking for something
behind my falling words

you found nothing but
a boy from jazz highway
rustling night’s leaves

Best experienced through headphones…

ant-people, something has happened that’s made me question the nature of my reality, a thread to follow…

the point of intersection between the human mind and suppression. i don’t think you will ever see me again. i achieved what i was incapable of.

the time wave,
i sent it.

the strong rule the weak and the clever rule the strong. the distribution of our current system is the deadly bank account. there is a dangerous underground operating in telepathic space.

dangerous adventurers who plan to outthink and displace the static fragmentation of our united class society, everyone living lives as a member of a particular class thinking every kind of thought without exception, stamped with the brand of class rubbing elbows and getting jostled in by the crowd.

in the moment she answered
formless in-between states of grief
shadows dancing underneath her eyes
she did not recognise me

dull and desperate
before the beginning

i caught myself staring like a
chimp caught humping another
chimp, never would i be better

imitating the ways of the master not to
create but to destroy the beat of her heart